The Unfinished Angel Read Online Free Page B

person, and a pleasing face—”
    â€œPleasing? Attractiful?”
    â€œYes, pleasing, I would say. The robe, hmm, is a bit long and crooked. . . .”
    I hold out my arms. “It is?”
    â€œYes, but it’s also sort of regal. You know what ‘regal’ is?”
    â€œOf course, like king, like queen!”
    Zola is trying to peer around behind me. “Where do the wings go?”
    â€œWings? What wings?”
    Zola frowns. “Don’t you have wings? I thought for sure, that first time I saw you, that you had wings.”
    I feel like I am going to bust into the tower walls and crimble into a thousand pieces. “I do not have wings.” I say it slowly so that I do not sound too mad, but I am feeling hurt. “I am not a bird. I am an angel.”
    â€œOkay, okay, calm down,” she says.
    I am about to reassure her that I am perfectly calm when we hear boom, boom, boom-de-boom, boom, boom, boom-de-boom. It is Vinny on his drums. Then we hear arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf.
    Boom, boom, boom-de-boom—
    Arf, arf, arf—
    Zola leans over the balcony wall. “Be quiet! Shut up! Stop it! I’m going to kill you!”
    If Zola had a thunderbolt, I think she would throw it.

S WISHING IN THE N IGHT
    T hat night, after I check on the childrens in the chicken shad and beam them warm beams and see if they have found the figs I have left for them (they have), I wait until dark and then I flish into all the casas and apartamentos and sprinkle over the heads of all the sleeping adulterinos the knowingness of the hungry childrens. It takes a long time, but I am happy when I am done.
    Now the peoples will do something, because peoples take care of other peoples, especially childrens, right?
    I return to my hammock on the balcony just as the rosy headfore of morning begins to rise over the mountain. It is quiet, perfectly quiet, with only the sounds of mountains and trees humming.

P OCKETA
    P ocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa- pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocket—
    What is it? What is the awful pocketa-pocketa-pocketa noise?
    Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
    It sounds like peoples playing that game, what is it, pong-ping? Like that, hitting the ball very fast back and forth, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.
    I flash here and there. Stop that noise! This is the peaceful village!
    Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
    Now il beasto joins in: Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf—
    Pocketa-pocketa—
    It is a workman. He is in the old Pita building just down the road, and he is putting up walls for the school of Mr. Pomodoro. He has a new tool, an automatico nail driver. It goes like this: Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa—
    Signora Divino shouts out of her window. She tells the pocketa man to be quiet and then she says many ugly words. Next, Signor Rubini and then Signora Pompa and soon most of the villagers are leaning out of their windows with their ruffled bed hair and they are shouting ugly words at the pocketa man, who does not stop because he cannot hear them, what with all the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa, pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

A GITATO
    T here is no sleeping, no resting to be had with all the noise in the village. This used to be such a quiet place. You only would hear the birdies twirping and the church bells ringing.
    I am a little crankiful when I am not sleeping well. I fling myself here and there on the balcony ledges, trying to knock myself into sleep. Then I give up and see over the scene. This is an intrigueful thing to do usually. You can see into everyone’s yards and windows; you see them walking down the paths and lanes; you see the dogs chasing the cats chasing the mices; you see the birdies nesting and squabbling and flittering. There are always many things going on.
    Today I see Zola’s father, Mr. Pomodoro, on his terrace, talking with an elderly man wearing